


Miserere

by Sorted



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: All the Plot Spoilers, Canon Compliant, M/M, POV Varric Tethras, Some headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorted/pseuds/Sorted
Summary: The Tale of the Champion: Grunty Asshole with a Giant SwordHawke seemed like the last person Varric would EVER write a book about. Then things got...complicated.
Relationships: Male Hawke & Bethany Hawke, Male Hawke & Fenris, Male Hawke & Varric Tethras, Male Hawke/Anders
Kudos: 11





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you happen upon this fic without knowledge of DA2, **turn back now and don't read.** You won't know what's happening and I will spoil the entire plot for you, which would be a travesty. If you are curious, DanaDuchy on YouTube is the Dragon Age Archivist, and she has the whole plot of this game in a playlist. **Watch that** , then come back to this, if you're really interested.

In the early days, Varric didn’t think much of Garret Hawke. The man was a big, hulking, silent dullard. He scowled and growled at everyone he met. He hated Varric’s plan to raise enough coin to invest in the expedition and wouldn’t say why; he went along with it only at the urging of his sister. When people told him what they needed him to do, he grunted at them. The only thing he seemed to be good at was swinging a giant sword around; secondary skills including giant axes and giant hammers. _What a bore_.

There was _one_ point in his favor, though. When a Templar gave his little sister a long, narrow-eyed look and started to say, “You there! Girl…” Garret Hawke growled and huffed and looked like a standing-up version of his own mabari. To Varric, it was a little bit funny. To the Templar, apparently, it was surprisingly intimidating. And watching a Templar nearly piss himself and take a sudden interest in a stack of nearby crates was _hilarious_.

So maybe Garret Hawke would be good for an occasional laugh, at least, but probably nothing more. Once the expedition was done, there would be no more reason to endure his rather grunty presence.

\--

The giant, metal-covered warrior _stomped_ toward Sundermount, scowled at the tiny Dalish, and only just managed to grunt a rare question: “What’s a shemlen?”

“The elven word for human,” Fenris supplied.

“We are the last of the elvhen…”

“So you say. Frequently.”

Hawke just grunted.

They let him in, eventually.

Hawke stomped up to the little old elven lady and held out the amulet with a grunt. She talked.

“Fine.”

She talked some more.

“Fine.”

She kept talking—about taking her First with them to Kirkwall.

“ _Fine._ ”

If Hawke knew what _curiosity_ was, he usually expressed it with questions like, “Which way?” That was pretty much all he asked the Keeper, now. She finally gave up, pointed to the right trail, and Hawke stomped out of the camp so fast Varric almost had to jog to keep up.

The little elf waiting for them was nervous and stammering, and she got a grunt of “Let’s go” rather than a greeting. Varric hurriedly stepped in with an apology and an introduction. He was beginning to think someone would have to speak up once in a while and do a little of the talking. Fenris was like a broodier, slightly smaller and thinner version of Hawke—so, not a talker—and Sunshine was sweet, but didn’t seem to think her brother’s conversation was lacking in any way.

Then they got into a scuffle, and the little elf girl whipped out a staff and hit the enemy with magic.

As soon as the fight was over: “The Keeper didn’t mention you were a mage.”

Varric blinked at Hawke. _Eight words in a row? This is a first._

The man of monosyllables and grunts proceeded to ask a whole _two questions_ of the little elf girl. And he didn’t snap at her for her longish answers. He sounded almost growlingly _worried_ when he warned her about the Templars in Kirkwall. And then he _thanked her for her help_.

Varric snuck a glance at Sunshine to see if she was as shocked. She just smiled mildly, listening.

They continued up the mountain. Hawke was no longer stomping.

Another Dalish passed them, snapping a nasty comment at Merrill. Hawke lurched a little, a half-step forward, the scowl reappearing—the same look that had scared the Templar half to death. But the Dalish fellow strode off without noticing the threat.

“Are you all right?” Hawke’s growl was almost gentle, now.

Something clicked together in Varric’s mind. He was acting toward the elven girl…the same way he acted toward his sister. As polite as a rock wall—and as protective as one.

And then, a little further up the mountain, the elf went and cut her palm. And just like that, the rock wall turned. Hawke edged between his sister and the blood magic and snarled, “You summoned a demon!” Varric jotted a mental note— _Hates strangers, sweet to mage girls, draws the line at blood magic?_ This was turning into a very informative trip. Helpful for deciphering Hawke’s usual array of grunts.

The rest of the trip got pretty quiet. Hawke was back to stomping and growling, most of the way. He was more polite to Flemeth, though no more verbose. But after all, as Varric learned later, she _had_ saved his life—and his family.

The anti-blood-magic rage seemed to expire at some point between Sundermount and the Kirkwall alienage—or perhaps it was just the big, round eyes in the little elf girl’s face as she looked around like she was about to cry. Either way, when she asked if Hawke would come visit her sometime, he didn’t snap a short “No” as Varric expected. There was a silence for a moment—then another moment. _Awkward_. Then, scowling: “All right.” Not his usual short, grumpy “ _Fine._ ”

As they walked away, Sunshine patted his huge, muscle-bound arm. “She probably has her reasons, brother. I’m sure it isn’t as bad as it seems.”

Hawke grunted.

“Don’t worry too much. Maybe the Dalish know things we don’t. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Hawke grunted.

 _All right_ , Varric decided, _he’s not as boring as I thought_.

\--

“The Grey Warden is an apostate?”

“We would never betray him to the Templars, mistress,” Sunshine chimed in.

Hawke grunted. “Of course not. We mean him no harm.”

This—Varric was curious, again. He was forming theories about Garret Hawke. The big meathead treated everyone the same—with a whack of his giant sword or a rude grunt—unless they were a mage. Now it just remained to be seen if it would be _all_ mages, or just the cute little girl ones, like his sister.

In the stinking, murky tunnels of Darktown, they found their next test subject _I mean potential ally_ Varric corrected himself. He observed Hawke with interest as they talked to the former Grey Warden healer.

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?”

“No threats. Just talk.”

_Oh dear. Single syllables again…_

Varric spoke up, explaining about the Deep Roads expedition, because it looked like Hawke was going to stick with mostly grunts again today. The apostate didn’t seem thrilled, but he suggested a trade of favors—they could have the Deep Roads maps if they did a job for him.

“I’ll do it.”

“You don’t ask for my terms? What if I were asking for the knight-commander’s head on a spike?”

“ _Is_ that what you ask?”

“You decide.” This, with a little half-smile.

Varric had been thinking, since they walked in here, that Hawke’s face looked…redder than usual. _Probably the lousy torch light_ , he’d thought at first. But the shade of red was only getting darker as they talked to the apostate, and Varric was beginning to think—impossible as it seemed—that the warrior might, just maybe, actually be… _blushing_.

And Hawke still didn’t ask a single question, but… “I would help any mage in such circumstances. Gladly.”

_Ooh, nine words this time! He must really like this one._

And then, in the middle of the Chantry, the Grey Warden turned out to be an abomination.

Expecting this to go the way it had with Daisy, Varric was…not sure what to make of Garret Hawke when they got back to the Darktown clinic.

“You’re an abomination.” This, followed by cross-armed silence, but with an odd sort of listening in it, like maybe that was meant to be a question.

“You’re wrong. But…” The apostate sighed. “Not far wrong.”

Hawke listened—he was occasionally good at that, as long as no one wanted him to actually _answer_ —as Anders explained himself and his little spirit problem.

“Once he was inside me, he…changed.”

Hawke was _red_. Nearly purple, actually, above the beard. Varric was re-thinking his blush theory. A giant warrior like Hawke really couldn’t be blushing like _that_. He was probably furious, instead. Probably about to behead the abomination—that made more sense. Either way, he didn’t seem able to verbalize much.

Sunshine was sweet to the new mage; the elf, Fenris, was decidedly _not_. Varric was refining his opinion about that one—he was identical to Hawke in being quiet, growly, and swinging giant pieces of sharp metal around; he was the opposite of him in build, attitude toward mages, and overall amount of hair. Also—Varric had yet to see Fenris blush. _If_ Hawke’s red face was, in fact, indicative of blushing.

“My maps are yours, as am I, if you wish me to join…”

Varric hadn’t thought Hawke could get any redder. Maybe he _was_ blushing, then. It was so hard to be sure, though. Such a big, powerful warrior who didn’t _say_ anything…

Hawke accepted the maps with a grunt and they left.

The minute they were out of sight of the clinic, the giant warrior sat down heavily on a none-too-clean crate. His sister, totally unsurprised, stood beside him and patted and rubbed his back while Hawke scowled furiously at the ground and seemed to be taking slow, deep breaths.

“There, there, brother,” Sunshine said, sweetly.

Varric glanced at the elf. Fenris glanced back at him, arching an eyebrow. Both of them looked at Hawke, curious. Sunshine smiled mildly at them both, over her brother’s head.

“Uh, Hawke?” Varric ventured.

Hawke looked up, but his gaze skimmed past Varric quickly—to Fenris. Immediately, he cleared his throat and stood up. “Let’s go.”

 _So this guy is either an idiot and completely boring, or he’s the strangest human I’ve ever met._ Varric went and bought a little book of blank parchment and a pen and started taking notes in earnest.

\--

Sunshine was a bust. She wouldn’t tell him anything. “Oh, never mind him. It’s just the way my brother is.”

Gamlen: “That boy is an ass. I can’t believe no one has killed him yet.”

Hawke’s mother: “He’s a dear boy, isn’t he? I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

Aveline: “Hawke? Don’t ask me. He’s been like that since I met him. Just don’t threaten Bethany, and it’ll be fine.”

Varric even asked Athenril. “A decent blade. What else is there?”

So they met a pirate wench called Isabela, who very nearly groped Hawke the minute she met him. He glowered and grunted at her, mostly staring straight over her head.

They met a dwarf, Javaris. Hawke glowered and grunted.

They met an Orlesian merchant, Hubert. Hawke glowered and grunted.

Macha, distressed maiden— _glowering and grunting_.

Ghyslain de Carrac, asshole with a missing wife— _glowering and grunting_.

Templar recruits— _glowering and grunting and sticking himself between the Templars and Bethany._

 __Jethann, elven whore (male)— _turned bright red and said almost nothing_.

Emeric, Templar— _glowering and grunting and sticking himself between the Templar and Bethany._

 __Cullen, Templar— _same thing._

Viveka, Blooming Rose bookkeeper— _glowering and grunting_.

Idunna, human whore (female)— _same._

Tahrone, insane blood mage— _didn’t bother to growl, pretty much just killed her._

Keran, rescued (half-naked) Templar— _turned bright red and said nothing._

And as they scurried around, talking to people as little as possible and fighting people on the regular, Varric took a few odd notes about Hawke in combat, as well. Generally, he waded right into the middle of things and just started whaling on people with his oversized sword and let Varric or Isabela or Fenris or Aveline use whatever tactics they chose. But as soon as somebody with a dagger or sword started sneaking past the melee toward Bethany, Hawke would roar, slam his way out of the crowd and bash the person flat. _No one_ ever got near Bethany.

He didn’t bring Merrill that much—she knew a few spells nobody was comfortable with—but when he did and when they fought, it was the same thing.

And then Anders joined them a few times, and it was the same again. Hawke never let anybody get near the mages.

He was no finesse fighter. He was ridiculously strong—that was about it. Put a heavy enough, sharp enough piece of metal in his hands, and he could wreck some shit. Fenris taught him a few fighting techniques, like how to jump in the air and smash people to the ground. Hawke was red, silent, and extremely attentive throughout the lessons. Aveline tried to teach him some shield skills, but it didn’t go well. Varric always knew when Hawke had been attempting shield lessons, because he’d show up in the Hanged Man with a bruised head and a busted chin—having accidentally smashed himself in the face with his own shield. The day he somehow managed to break his nose with it, he growled at Aveline, saying where she could stow her damned shield, and there were no more lessons, ever again. Then he sat in the Hanged Man, glowering at his ale all night, his whole face blue and purple and Sunshine’s hankie stuffed gingerly up his nostrils.

\--

So they saved a kid named Feynriel from slavers, which pleased Fenris, but Hawke agreed he could go to the Dalish and didn’t force him into the Circle, which Fenris snarled at. Hawke scowled at the ground.

Thrask, a Templar Hawke had carefully guarded his mages against, asked them to come help him save some apostates, and Hawke growled and grunted…until it came to the point. Then, he readily and seriously promised to find a way to save the runaways’ lives. “I will not allow this to become a bloodbath,” he swore.

Anders said nothing, but he turned a look upon the warrior that Varric could only call _adoration._ And that wasn’t even Varric’s trademarked bullshit. No-nonsense Aveline would have used the same word, had she been present.

Fenris spat in the dirt.

They still ended up killing a few apostates, in self-defense, but Hawke was as good as his word to those who surrendered. He wouldn’t agree to _kill_ Thrask, but he vowed, in four short words: “I’ll get you out.”

He handed the explanation off to Varric, who was a ready liar, and it was a good thing, too. Ser Karras was one of the first people they’d met who didn’t even blink under the full force of Hawke’s scowl. Grace and the Starkhaven mages thanked Hawke profusely, but he just grunted and pointed at Varric. “Thank _him_.”

“Oh, no, that’s all right. This one was all you, Hawke,” Varric deflected.

Anders: “He’s right. You were the one who truly made this possible, Hawke.” His eyes were sparkling with utter devotion.

“Hnf,” Fenris grunted.

Hawke turned red, dark red, and scowled at the dirt.

\--

That night, at the Hanged Man, Varric propped his feet up on the table and leaned back in his chair, flipping slowly through his notes. Hawke bought the drinks—with gestures only, not a word—and then slipped off to see Martin, his usual stop when he wanted a buyer for the crap he picked up in crates, chests, and off dead bodies all over Kirkwall. Bethany went with him to help him sort through everything and make sure he didn’t get rid of anything really useful. Anders sat and sighed into his ale, gazing after the warrior until he was gone.

“Have you ever met such a wonderful man in all the world?” he asked dreamily. Varric glanced at him over the edge of his notebook.

“I don’t think I have,” Merrill cheerfully agreed. “Or…wait. When you say ‘man,’ does that include elven men, or only humans? I can never tell.”

Isabela strolled over, dragging a chair, and sat in it the wrong way, shamelessly spreading her legs to either side of the chair back. Several patrons around the tavern started leaning, looking, and craning their necks. “He’s definitely _something_ , isn’t he?” she chuckled, tossing back her whiskey.

Fenris snorted.

“He’s a _hero_ ,” Anders sighed.

“He _is_ nice, isn’t he? Once you get used to the grunting,” Merrill chirped.

“I didn’t think he’d be worth a go,” Isabela commented, waving for another drink, “even if his little sword was as big as his big one is, but the way he _blushes!_ Doesn’t it just make you want to tie him up and _spank_ him?”

“How can you talk that way about him!” Anders huffed. “He’s a selfless, caring, noble human being with a brave and true heart, and all you see is his—”

“Now, now, Blondie,” Varric cut in, eyes back on his notes. “To each their own. Anyway, she didn’t _do_ anything to him.”

“Not _yet_ ,” Isabela purred.

“You never will,” Fenris pronounced flatly.

“Excuse you?”

The elf shrugged. “Not with his consent, at least. Does that not matter to you?”

“For your information, I’m not so desperate that—”

The bartender brought Isabela’s drink. Varric caught his eye, nodded at her, and signaled one more.

“—are always _more_ than willing!”

“Very well,” Fenris inclined his head. “If it interests you, try it.”

“I will if I like, whatever you say!”

Fenris raised his ale. “Five sovereigns he won’t do it.”

“…What?”

“Just what I said.”

Isabela glared at him narrowly for a moment. Varric slipped his pen out of his pocket and dabbed the tip on his tongue. Some dry ink was still left there.

“All right,” she agreed. “Deal. Five sovereigns says he _will_.”

Varric jotted a note. “By what date will you two be settling this?”

Isabela arched an eyebrow at Fenris. “No hurry,” he said, calmly. “When you have made your utmost attempt and been denied, I’ll accept my winnings.”

Beside the record of the wager, Varric wrote: _The elf has noticed, too._

“You’re both horrible,” Anders declared. “Hawke is a gentleman. He’s much too good for either of you.”

“Ugh!” Isabela rolled her eyes.

“…How could he have a ‘little sword’ that was the same size as his ‘big sword’?” Merrill asked. “Doesn’t he usually give the smaller swords to Aveline to use?”

Everyone looked over at her and blinked for a moment.

“Oh, _Merrill_ ,” Isabela finally sighed.

“What? …Did I miss something?”

\--

There were Templars in Gamlen’s house when they got back from the Deep Roads. Hawke _lost it._

 __“Get your hands off my sister! _Get your hands off my sister!_ ”

For a moment, it looked like he was about to start ripping heads off—quite literally. Then Sunshine herself slipped her Templar escort and was in front of him in an instant, unblinking, fair little hands pressing his grimy armor.

“Brother! Calm down, it’s all right!”

“I won’t let them take you, never, never! Never let the damned Templars get you, I promise!”

“Garret!”

Hawke stopped. Blinked.

In a quiet voice, almost too soft to hear, Bethany steadily said, “It’s already done. I’m going with them. Please don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” He snarled. She held his eyes. Quieter: “Do you want to get Mother in trouble?”

Hawke froze. He looked like a trapped animal.

With a wan smile, Sunshine took his hand. “After all, it’s not like I’m really going anywhere. I’ll be just over in the Gallows. Perhaps we’ll even be able to see each other, sometimes. And letters won’t take any time at all. We can write every day. You can tell me all the news.” Pleading eyes searched his. “All right? Brother?”

\--

That was how the growly, monosyllabic warrior Hawke lost his sister and got rich. That was also how Varric, unintentionally, got even more intimately involved with his family. After leaving the house, Sunshine asked her escort to give her a moment, and she came to speak with him. “You’ll watch out for him, won’t you, Varric?”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Sunshine. He’s a rich man, now. He’ll be living in style, soon.”

“I know. But he’s…” She pressed her lips together. “Do the talking for him whenever you can, won’t you? He hates talking to strangers. He’s so terribly shy.”

Varric had been toying with that idea, wondering if it were possible. It was only a guess at first, and for a long time, it was a hard thing to believe. But lately… “Yeah.” He nodded. “I’ll help him deal with people.”

“And…” She bit her lip. “There’s probably nothing you can do about it, really, but please, please keep an eye on him? Maybe try to stop him falling in love with every single pretty boy he meets?”

_Ah…_

“I got it, Sunshine. I’ll steer him clear of a broken heart, if I can.”

A perfect, sweet smile of relief. “Thank you, Varric. I feel so much better now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This game is so old, and I always managed to resist writing fic of it - alas, why now? Well, I was replaying it, for a nice IV drip of pure nostalgia, and I decided to try some things I'd never done before - playing as a warrior, for one, and making a real, devoted effort to get through the game as an aggressive Hawke. But I had to do SOMETHING with the guy to make him tolerable, or I'd never finish the game that way. So this Garrett Hawke is how I managed, and this fic happened as a result. It's pointlessly self-indulgent, but I had a great time, so. ^_^


	2. Act 2

Garret Hawke was the worst addition to the wealthy nobility of Kirkwall the city had ever seen.

Dinner parties? Social calls? _Manners?_ Maker preserve the poor Hightown set, they were fools to hope for any of it from the newly reinstated scion of the Amells.

Hawke seemed happy, though. He put his mother up in style, with obsessive attention to her comfort. And, now that he was no longer scraping for cash and pinching his coppers, he stopped running around doing work for every random stranger in the city. He avoided people like the Blight for a while. Varric let him have a little break from it all, but in time he felt he had to start dragging Hawke out, at least to the Hanged Man, to keep him from becoming a recluse.

Then—well, destiny decided his break was over.

The Arishok told the Viscount to tell “that Hawke” to come see him, and there was nothing Hawke could do to get out of it. Damned bothersome, but unfortunately the Qunari really seemed to like him and his curt, blunt, honest efficiency.

One thing led to another. An Arvaraad stopped them outside the Qunari compound and asked if they’d killed a missing patrol. Hawke grunted that he’d go check the Wounded Coast and see what happened to them, and the minute he left the city, slave hunters jumped on his head, demanding the return of Fenris. The missing patrol had to wait.

Now, in the matter of Fenris, Varric had been adding to his notes. Once Varric got past the physical differences imposed by nature upon elf and human, he decided Fenris and Hawke were pretty much twin souls after all. It was probably why Fenris _knew,_ before even Varric was sure of it, that Isabela was never going to get with that. He simply understood Hawke. But they had one crucial difference.

Mages.

To Fenris, a mage was the demon on his back. To Hawke, a mage was the angel placed in his arms when he was five years old and still hadn’t started talking yet.

Varric learned these things over tea visits to Hightown, as the trusted advisor to the Hawke/Amell restoration in all business matters. Leandra was a chatty old lady over a nice cup of tea.

So Fenris snarled and spat over many of the things Hawke did in those early days, and it looked like hatred. But in all the time following, he never tried to avoid Hawke, and he never stopped coming to the Hanged Man. He and Hawke walked down from Hightown together, now—saying nothing, as far as Varric could tell—and walked back together at the end of the evening, and parted without a word. Varric had them followed a few times to make sure—not a word, just a nod of farewell.

_Take mages out of the picture, and they’d be soulmates_ , he decided.

The thing was, the slaver now hunting Fenris was a mage. A lady-mage, no less, with brown hair somewhat like Bethany’s. Hawke didn’t support slavers. But this was a question mark in Varric’s notes, and by the tension in Fenris’ lean body and by the sharp, jerky swings of his greataxe, Varric guessed Fenris wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to go, either. Hawke had given that dead mage boy out on the coast a long, heavy scowl before he turned away without a word and led them to the holding caves to hunt down Hadrianna.

When they beat her—because who _didn’t_ they beat?—it all came down to one completely agonizing silence.

The fight ended, and Hawke planted the tip of his massive greatsword in a crack between two stones and stood, glaring and listening as Hadrianna stopped Fenris dead in his tracks with the word “sister.”

Fenris promised not to kill her, his voice like metal malice tearing through living rock.

Hadrianna told him what she knew. Then she wanted to leave, with her life.

Hawke pulled his sword out of the ground and shifted a half-step forward. Fenris turned and looked up at him, murder in his eyes, tension in every inch of his improbably powerful body.

For a long, long moment, Hawke met those eyes, frowning heavily. Then he turned that look on the magister. Fenris hovered, still fixed on his face—silent, waiting.

Then Hawke shut his eyes, shifted back, and the tip of his sword made a little _clank_ as it contacted the stone floor again.

Fenris turned, all of him aglow with blue hate, and crushed the woman’s heart with one powerful, predatory strike.

They didn’t talk about it on the way back.

But they did, eventually, talk about it. What Varric got from Bodahn wasn’t much use to him, though. Bodahn wasn’t great at interpreting the conversational silences of such laconic warriors. It was better for Varric to watch and make his own observations.

Hawke came to the Hanged Man alone, once. He sat in silence. His scowl would have curdled milk—had there been any in that tavern.

The next time, Fenris came with him, as before, and everything went on—as before. Except…

Hawke stopped blushing around Fenris. But also…

Hawke stopped leaving Fenris entirely to his own devices in battle. He didn’t guard him like he guarded the mages—that would have been ridiculous—but he minded where Fenris went, and he put himself nearer him. Not near enough to cramp either of their fighting styles—just near enough that he could smash people back if they pressed in on Fenris too close. Just near enough that if a stealthed assassin popped up behind him, Hawke was one swing and a half-step away from crushing the fellow.

The two of them fell more and more into perfect, synchronized unity with every fight.

Anders noticed, completely misinterpreted it, and sniffled into his tankard, red around the eyes. Anders did _not_ notice that Hawke still turned red before walking into the Darktown clinic, or whenever Anders entered the Hanged Man. Possibly Anders had no opportunity to realize that shade of red was not actually Hawke’s natural skin tone. He certainly seemed to take it hard how little Hawke had to say to him. But he idolized the warrior just the same.

Varric left it. He figured that if Blondie didn’t know, so much the better. Nothing against the guy—he was fun. But he was also demon-possessed, and Varric had a promise to keep to Sunshine.

\--

_Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Slam. Thud._

Hawke’s entrance to the Hanged Man one night was a bit hard on the rough old floor, and dangerously challenging to the chair he dropped into like a giant, glowering statue. Varric glanced around. Everyone was here, except Aveline, who was probably on duty, and _she_ didn’t put Hawke in moods like this. Isabela was playing cards with Merrill, and Fenris and Anders were already here, just waiting for Hawke to show up and make a fourth for Wicked Grace. Fenris glanced over from the bar, where he was getting the drinks. Anders stopped in the middle of his story, and he and Varric just looked at the scowling warrior glaring a hole through the surface of their table.

Varric glanced at Anders, who looked worried. Then at Fenris, who narrowed his eyes and began to make his way over with the drinks. Then at Isabela and Merrill—one of whom hadn’t noticed, while the other was waving off the rest of the card game and encouraging a relocation.

_If something were wrong with Sunshine, he’d be raging._ Varric tried a different guess. “Evening Hawke. Heard anything from the Viscount lately?”

Hawke grunted. It was one of his disinterested grunts.

“No? …Say, how’s your uncle?”

Hawke shrugged. By this time, Fenris was handing out drinks, and Isabela was herding Merrill into a chair at their table and taking one herself.

Varric glanced at Fenris, shook his head, and shrugged. _Well, I’m out_.

Fenris studied the other warrior. Pushed his tankard in front of him silently. Hawke grabbed it, took a long pull, and set it down with a heavy _thunk_. It had given him a foam mustache in his regular mustache. He didn’t raise his hand to wipe it away; he sucked at it half-heartedly with his bottom lip, which just made him look like an extremely huge, hairy, pouting child.

“Hawke.” Fenris’ voice was level.

A grunt.

“What is the matter.”

Hawke finally looked up from the table and scowled at Fenris. Fenris met the look without a flinch. Hawke dropped his eyes and glowered down into his drink.

“Mother said…she’s going to start…finding me a suit-suitable _wife._ ”

“Hmm,” Fenris answered.

“A _wife?_ ” Varric spoke up, unable to resist. “Your mother said that?”

Hawke nodded, once. Heavily.

Merrill blinked in silent confusion. Isabela glanced sharply around the table, calculating. Anders’ eyes shot from Hawke to Varric to Fenris and back, alight with a curiosity that bordered on desperation.

“But…” Varric persisted, “doesn’t she _know?_ She’s your mother!”

Hawke’s bottom lip _trembled._

“So that’s it,” Varric sighed, leaning back.

“Hmm,” Fenris agreed.

Anders spoke up softly, looking tragic. “Does she…not approve? Of you and Fenris?”

Hawke raised his head and blinked at him.

Fenris sneered. “What?”

Isabela glared at Fenris. “ _What?_ ”

Hawke furrowed his ever-furrowed brow even deeper and looked around at them all. “Uh?”

“Why is everyone saying that?” Merrill chirped.

“Ah, shit,” Varric sighed.

Hawke turned deeply and profoundly _red_.

Varric cleared his throat. “Ah, Blondie, I think you got the wrong—”

“There is no _us_ for his mother to hold an opinion on, whether approving or disapproving,” Fenris cut in, straight to the point. “The matter at hand is Hawke’s preference, which one might have expected his mother to have realized at some point in the process of raising him.”

“Now, elf, let’s not be too harsh on—”

“Preference? What do you mean?” Anders looked confused and, tentatively, hopeful.

“Wait.” Isabela leaned over her drink. “You have a _preference?_ ”

Hawke, faced with a view of so much cleavage that he could not escape it without straight-up turning his back…shut his eyes, scrunchingly, and gave a tiny nod.

Isabela peeled her lips back from her teeth a bit. “Ah- _huh_ ,” she said, arching an eyebrow at Fenris.

Fenris shrugged.

Anders was staring at Hawke in a state of transported rapture. Hawke cracked an eye open, saw him, shut it again, and turned redder.

Merrill made a little wrinkle in her vallaslin as she attempted to puzzle all this out.

But the point at the moment, as far as Varric was concerned, was to keep his promise to Sunshine and watch out for Hawke. “Look, Hawke,” he began, diplomatically, “try to look at it in a different light. It’s not that your mother doesn’t _care_. And remember, in most things, she understands you quite well. Give Sunshine some credit—she was more perceptive than most. And your mother doesn’t see much of you when you’re away from home, so the opportunities are…” Hawke opened his eyes to glare woefully at Varric. “Well, be that as it may. You know, if you just tell her, I’m sure she’ll immediately realize that, hey, on some level, she probably knew it all along.”

Hawke sniffled.

Anders couldn’t tear his eyes from Hawke’s hairy red face. “I thought,” he breathed, “I was so certain…”

_Ah, shit_ , Varric thought.

It was all in the timing. Not that it would have been very different, at any other time—Anders had been in love with Hawke for years already—but just yesterday Hawke had literally and ruthlessly _beheaded_ the sadistic Templar Ser Alrik and personally supplied the terrified runaway mage girl with the coin necessary to get out of Kirkwall entirely. Anders was dealing with his self-loathing over Justice and the whole event by adoring Hawke all the more—for saving her, and most of all for saving _him_ from himself.

Garret Hawke couldn’t flirt to save his life. To anyone who didn’t know about the red-faced silent treatment and what it meant, it was impossible to tell if he was interested. Anders had no idea at all—and Varric had been counting on that, hoping nothing would happen as long as Hawke never managed to make his feelings understood. Anders lingering under the mistaken idea that Hawke was with Fenris didn’t hurt the situation either.

But this, right now?

It was inevitable.

\--

Neither Hawke nor Anders showed up in the Hanged Man the next night, or any night for a week after that. Anders had vanished from his clinic. The next time Varric saw them, they were both glowing—Hawke somehow managing to glow while frowning—they were holding hands, and Hawke was…

Hawke was…walking funny.

“I can’t believe you,” Isabela hissed at Fenris. “I actually _fought a duel_ with him, you know!”

“Mmm.”

“Was he intentionally misunderstanding me this whole time?”

“Perhaps.”

She spat on the floor. “Well, I suppose at least it’s good to know he’s not as oblivious as Merrill after all.”

“My five sovereigns,” Fenris remarked placidly.

Isabela made a face at him, leaned forward, and shoved a hand down between her tits and began rooting around. Fenris enjoyed his drink while he waited.

It was, as Varric knew, all in the timing, but he could tell pretty clearly there wasn’t going to _be_ a good time for this. Still, he had promised Sunshine.

“You know, Hawke, maybe—just maybe—getting involved with the possessed mage might be dangerous?”

Hawke grunted.

“It’s just…as your friend, I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t say something.”

Hawke grunted.

“All right. I’ve said my piece. Good luck to you, Hawke.”

Hawke glared at him—but his expression had an odd little twist in it that sort of made him look like he was about to sneeze.

Instead: “Thanks, Varric,” he grunted.

Varric was left to conclude, by tender inches, that Hawke may have been… _smiling._

\--

For a little while, everything was blissful. Hawke and his adoring rebel mage were never apart. Varric still did the talking for him from time to time, but Hawke, though he spoke no more than he ever had, seemed to have lost a lot of the nervousness that made him snap at people. Of course, only those who knew him already could see the difference. He didn’t growl and glare anymore; he stood and listened to people with an expressionless face that could give a Qunari an even match for inscrutability. Then he’d just grunt in a vaguely agreeing way and go smash the problem into tiny, bloody chunks.

It was clear he was having a wonderful, relaxing honeymoon.

Anders passionately adored him. He waited on his beloved hand and foot when they came to relax at the Hanged Man together. He kissed Hawke’s temple or cheek, stroked his dark mop of hair, and clasped his huge hand and made a rather sickeningly sweet spectacle. Those were the post-coital nights, obviously. The other nights, they’d stare at each other with eyes aflame with desire (Anders) and a rather wicked sort of glare (Hawke) until they ended up in a dark corner…or a not-particularly-dark, not-exactly-a-corner, Anders pinning the larger warrior to a wall in an entirely different kind of display.

They were happy, so their friends did them the kindness of trying to ignore it all.

“He’s wonderful,” Anders sighed. “Everything is wonderful now.” He went to take a drink and missed his mouth and scarcely noticed. He wiped the spilled ale vaguely, still staring at the doorway where Hawke had vanished for his usual stop at Martin’s. “I just know that with him at my side, everything will be all right.”

“Is that so,” Varric hummed, eyes on his notebook.

“For his sake, I feel I could do anything. Together, we’ll free the mages from the Chantry’s tyranny. We’ll show the whole world the way things _should_ be.”

Varric turned a page over. “What about that little voice in your head, Blondie?”

Anders smiled. “Justice? It’s all right. I can control him, with Hawke’s help. And we’re working against injustice together, now. Justice is content with that. …Well, more content than he was before. I feel more safe, more myself than I have in years. All because of Hawke.”

Said warrior returned at that point, and Varric could tell at a glance that this was a pre-coital night by the look that passed between them. He shooed them along, lying that he had some business accounts to deal with and there wouldn’t be a card game tonight. Anders took Hawke by the hand and pulled him out of the Hanged Man, and Varric could only hope they would make it all the way home first.

“Where is Hawke?” Fenris asked when he arrived, a short while later, placing a tankard in front of Varric and moving to sit with his own.

“I send the little lovebirds home early. They wouldn’t have paid any attention to the game, anyway.”

“Awww!” Isabela whined. “I could have won _so much coin_ off them! Spoilsport.” She noticed Fenris tipping something from a flask into his tankard and pushed hers toward him. “Share?”

Wordlessly, Fenris extended his arm and poured. Varric started to say, “Fleecing them when they’re distracted isn’t exactly—” but then he cut himself off. “Hey, watch it!” He pulled his own tankard away before the scarf-thing on Fenris’ wrist could fall into his ale.

“Sorry,” Fenris said.

“Do you even wash that thing, or did you pick red so it doesn’t show blood stains?”

“Blood is brown when it dries,” Fenris observed neutrally.

“Uh huh.” Varric took a drink, then gave the broody elf a sideways glance. “What _is_ that thing, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Fenris swallowed spiked ale. “A scarf of some kind? What does it matter.” He glanced around. “Do we not have a fourth, then?”

“Merrill is coming,” Isabela offered, “if that’s worth mentioning.”

Fenris grunted.

“If you don’t know what it is and it doesn’t matter, why do you wear it tied over your gauntlet like that?” Varric pressed. “Seems inconvenient.”

“No it isn’t!” Isabela cut in. “It’s the most convenient, I think! How else is he going to carry a handkerchief? His armor doesn’t have pockets!” She smirked at Fenris. “At least, I can’t see that you have any _room_ for pockets…”

Fenris shrugged. This, apparently, didn’t merit a comment.

“I don’t remember you wearing that when I first met you,” Varric murmured, thinking back. “When _did_ you start wearing it…” He really hadn’t noticed, but he felt like it had been only this year, sometime.

“It was after the hunters attacked you,” Isabela chimed in. “I think, anyway. I thought you took it off that magister, sort of like keeping score. Get something off Danarius and wear it on the other wrist someday, right?”

Fenris scowled, his lip curling in disgust. “I would never keep filth from either of _them_ on my person.”

Varric narrowed his eyes. Isabela had reminded him. It _was_ right around that whole Hadrianna thing when the red scarf appeared…

“Aveline.” Fenris nodded toward the door. The guard-captain had just entered and, spotting them, she made her way over.

“Evening. Where’s Hawke?”

Isabela snorted and made an explicit gesture.

“Ah.”

“Are you off duty?” Fenris asked. “We could use a fourth for Wicked Grace.”

“I am, as a matter of fact. I suppose I could stay. For a little while.”

“Oooh, poor Donnic, pining at home alone…”

Aveline gave Isabela a flat stare. “Donnic’s on patrol until midnight, so shut it.”

“Good.” Fenris nodded to Varric. “Deal her in.”

The topic had changed. Varric let it. He dealt the cards.

\--

And then Hawke’s mother was murdered.

It was unbearable. The worst thing that had ever happened. Varric was there, and he would never forget it. The horrible way it happened. The way Hawke searched, frantic and silent. The way he didn’t ask a single question, just charged Quentin, roaring. The sight of what that monster had done to Leandra. The way she died in her son’s arms. The way he shook, clinging to the macabre dead thing that had contained, briefly, the last of his mother.

Anders knelt in the dust beside him and held him, stricken. Hawke buried his face in Anders’ chest, but he wouldn’t let go of his mother.

Fenris looked down at them with no expression at all. Then he went and found a heavy blanket, shook it out, made it as clean as possible, and laid it out. He stooped and gently, gently took Leandra from Hawke’s arms. Hawke clutched her a moment longer, but then he released her—to Fenris. The elf lay her on the blanket, and covered her and wrapped her carefully, hiding the horror and devastation as Anders held Hawke in his arms. Hawke clung to him, sobbing silently.

Fenris took care of the body. Varric arranged the funeral. Aveline handled the legal details and the investigation. Merrill brought flowers and other sweet little gestures. Isabela was there, without question, when it eventually came time for long, silent nights at the Hanged Man with a lot of alcohol. But until then, Anders stayed with him and supported him and comforted him and got him through it.

It was a good thing after all, Varric decided. Whatever risks Anders presented for the future, in the present, his love held Hawke together.

In time, after the funeral and a reclusive period and then a long stint of drinking, followed by a lot of gratuitous violence—some for coin, and then a great many guard drills with Aveline when the kill-for-pay jobs ran out—things began to get better. Back to normal, at least. The routine returned—the jobs for random strangers, the Bone Pit being a hassle, the Qunari putting everyone on edge, the mage-Templar thing, and the nights at the Hanged Man—Wicked Grace and friendship and camaraderie.

But when Varric looked back on that time, he knew—the honeymoon had already ended. Whatever semblance of it they got back, for a little while, it wasn’t the same. The dream had been shattered.

Kirkwall was spiraling toward a crisis of its own, and destiny wouldn’t leave Hawke out of it forever.

\--

“Oh no! The Arishok is charging him!”

“Yes! Did you see that? He hit him!”

The nobles who hadn’t been killed all watched the fight with bated breath. Isabela made a big stink about it, but the Arishok refused to fight her—Qunari logic which brooked no argument. So Hawke faced the Arishok in single combat, and the room hummed with tension and excitement. Nobles all loved a good show, after all, and the stakes were so thrillingly high.

Hawke stood before the Arishok—the only human in Kirkwall who didn’t look like a nug in front of a bronto. The Arishok still stood a head taller than him, but they both had absolutely _huge_ battle axes, and the match was sure to be a close and thrilling battle.

“Go, Hawke! You can do it!” Isabela whistled piercingly through her teeth and stabbed at the air with a dagger.

\--

_An hour later…_

“Oh look. The Arishok is charging. Again.”

“Ah. He hit him. Again.”

Isabela lounged on the steps, slumped against one wall, and yawned. Then she went back to picking dirt out from under her fingernails with the tip of her dagger.

Fenris checked the bottoms of his feet for the hundred thousandth time. Varric finally gave up and sat down beside Isabela. “What in the world do you think is taking the Knight-Commander so long?”

“Her arrival would not end this combat,” Fenris observed.

Anders was gnawing on the side of his thumb. “He’s tired. He’s definitely tired. He can’t keep this up forever. How is the Arishok still _standing?_ ”

“What did I say?” Isabela hummed. “Let me fight my own bloody duels. I’d have slit his throat by now.”

“More likely the Arishok would have painted the room red with your blood,” Fenris calmly answered.

“Maker, Hawke, watch out…!” Anders jerked, magic flashing at his fingertips for the hundred thousandth time. The nearby Qunari watched him warily, their grips flexing and tightening on their swords.

Varric took out his notebook, keeping one eye on the fight. Hawke and the Arishok continued to smack each other around with their ridiculously huge weapons. Varric turned a page over and noticed a reminder about a business venture involving a comte who happened to be in the room. Varric frowned, wondering if it would be unforgivably poor taste to just step over there for a minute and have a quick word with the comte. Hawke probably wouldn’t even notice…

Anders was muttering under his breath, “Blasted Arishok. There’s simply no way to tell what his condition is! He doesn’t look bothered by injuries at all! If only we had some visual indication, so we could know how much longer he can last…”

“How would that work?” Isabela readjusted her corset and glanced at the fight. “Do you want him to glow different colors or something? Green means good, yellow means damaged, red means nearly dead?”

“Why don’t you hang a sign around his neck with a picture on it?” Fenris contributed sarcastically.

“What sort of pictures?” Isabela perked up.

Anders turned on them—mostly on Isabela. “How can you two be so unconcerned about this? Especially you! Hawke is risking his life to save you from a fate worse than death at this very moment and you—!”

The crowd suddenly gasped, and Varric cut them off. “Would you look at that. I think Hawke’s done it.”

The Arishok stumbled backward. Anders trembled, eyes sparkling with hope. “Oh, thank the Maker!”

Isabela rolled to her feet lazily.

And Fenris…

Fenris’ shoulders relaxed slightly, and he removed his hand from the back of his hip. It had been there a while—poised as if he simply left his arms at rest in that position. But when he removed his hand at last, Varric could see just the hilt of what looked like a dagger, buckled at the small of his back. The broad blade of his greatsword lay over the rest of the sheath, hiding it.

Meredith strode in just in time to catch the cheers of the relieved crowd—and just in time to declare Garret Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall.

Hawke grunted at her proclamation, sat down heavily in the middle of the floor, and slumped over into Anders’ arms as the mage rushed to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of a laugh at DA2, in this chapter, for the way that game made everyone bisexual (because coding restrictions on the romances would have taken longer, and DA2 was cutting alllllll the corners). So in this fic, the concept of sexual orientations is like this weird thing people have heard of, sort of, but nobody has ever met somebody who HAS an actual orientation. So Hawke is a bit of a surprise to them. ^_^


	3. Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 3 sucks, in case you forgot. :/

“You are…living with Hawke, now?”

“What’s it to _you?_ ”

Varric arched an eyebrow and glanced between the elf and Blondie. Fenris gave the mage a hard, flat look.

“Be good to him. Break his heart, and I will kill you.”

Varric didn’t bother watching Anders roll his eyes; he checked Hawke’s expression, more curious about that.

Hawke scowled at the ground. He sure did that a lot. And these days especially…

Hawke arrived alone that night. “Where’s the wife?” Varric asked.

“Busy.” Hawke sat down heavily.

“And you’re not?” Varric chuckled.

Hawke frowned at the table. “He won’t let me help.”

“Well. He’s got a bit of sense after all.”

“Varric.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t bother him about Justice.”

Varric glanced up at this. “What do you mean?” he asked, though he could guess that this might have something to do with his recent efforts to cheer Anders up—none of which had gone well.

Hawke’s eyes dropped back to the table, and he scowled for a long while before he growled, haltingly, “Meredith has…got most of the mage underground. One by one. Almost all dead now. They go down fighting. She caught a few. All Tranquil now. Anders would be too, long ago, if he wasn’t hiding with me.” He looked up. “Don’t pick on him. It’s hard. He’s scared.”

Fenris had approached early in this unusually long speech, and he sank quietly into a chair, listening. When Hawke fell silent again, Fenris glanced at him. Then he sighed and shook his head. “They bring it on themselves, fighting the way they do. If they’d been content in the first place, it would never have come to this.”

Hawke’s scowl grew heavier. Then: “Bethany doesn’t fight.”

Varric glanced at Fenris. That was…a touchy point. Bethany had been on her best behavior in the Circle, having been under close scrutiny from the start, as a long-time apostate. But in recent years, her letters were constantly getting cut off, every time she was isolated under lock and key—not a punishment targeting _her_ , but simply a routine in the Gallows whenever the Templars caught another mage “rebelling.” Rebellion was so broadly defined that the innocent mages had hardly seen a week’s worth of days in the last year when they were free to walk out as far as the courtyard and get some fresh air. At this point, Hawke only got letters from Bethany at all as a special concession to the Champion, and because Knight-Captain Cullen personally carried them.

The letters were superficial and cheerful to an agonizing degree. Bethany’s silence on conditions in the Circle was so absolute that her letters screamed with it. She didn’t dare to even mention the most basic facts of reality, for fear that her words would be intentionally misconstrued as criticism, and she, marked as the latest “rebel.”

No, Bethany didn’t fight. And that answer didn’t change Fenris’ point about how things had come to this. But nobody wanted to say anything about mages in front of Hawke when he was worrying about his sister.

And in truth, although none of them had seen Bethany in years, who among them hadn’t liked her? Who among them wasn’t worried about her now? She was Sunshine. Even Fenris cared, though he never said so. But he had called her strong, once, and that was the loudest, most resounding word of approval Fenris had ever given a mage. And he’d never given even a grudging word of praise to any other.

At length, Hawke looked up, glanced at them in the silence, and said, “No cards, then?”

Varric sighed. “Isabela’s…busy, Aveline is on duty again, and if Blondie isn’t coming…”

“Merrill?”

“I tried to talk her out of her house, earlier, but she just kept staring at her mirror.” He shook his head. Hawke glowered. Finally, he stood.

“I’ll get her. Be back.”

When he was gone, Fenris muttered, “For Wicked Grace, he’d do better to bring his dog.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do. Have another drink.”

Hawke had been “mothering” Merrill since he moved up to Hightown; in recent years, more than ever. The more thin and drawn she looked, the more the Champion of Kirkwall stomped his way into the elven alienage to drag her out and _feed_ her. The city elves barely batted an eye at his arrival these days. They saw the Champion more often than the nobility in Hightown did.

Varric put in an order for stew and bread. Hawke would not be denied; Merrill would come. And she would be glared at until she ate whatever the Hanged Man could supply. Hawke’s glare still worked wonders on Merrill, even after all these years.

Merrill came, murmuring incessantly about her mirror, and that was how Varric and Fenris got roped into a long trek up Sundermount the next day.

It was time to go meet Merrill’s demon.

\--

At the top of Sundermount, where they went to find a demon, they instead found a little old elven lady. Keeper Marethari. An abomination.

“You always knew that your blood magic had a price, da’len. I have chosen to pay it for you. Kill me, and the demon dies too. Merrill will finally be safe. Dareth shiral.”

So they did. There was nothing else they _could_ do.

And Merrill sobbed over the body of the Keeper, pouring out recrimination. Marethari shouldn’t have done it, she should have let Merrill die, it was Merrill’s choice, Merrill’s price to pay, Merrill the one who was ready to lose her life for a little relic of her own history.

And big, hairy, scowling Hawke—the human, the man of no magic and no words—knelt down beside the little elf, frowning, and then reached out and scooped her up in his huge arms and held her like a baby. She looked no bigger than one—like a little doll cradled by a metal golem.

“You _are_ paying.” Hawke’s rough voice echoed in the cavern; they could hear his words, even though he spoke so quietly.

She sobbed into her hands, shoulders shaking.

“Merrill. The price of blood magic is big. It’s death and suffering. No one can pay it all, alone.” Hawke nodded toward the Keeper. “She died. You’re suffering. You get half.” Merrill’s hands lowered a bit and she looked up at him. “You wanted that half.” He nodded at the Keeper again. “If you got it, you wouldn’t know about the rest. But you’d leave this part,” he raised an armored hand, and just the tip of one leathery finger touched a tear track on her face, “for me.”

She blinked at him with her big eyes, and that callused hand pulled her closer—it was almost bigger than her entire head—and Hawke bent and whispered in her ear. Varric couldn’t hear him anymore. Whatever he said, it was short, but it seemed to penetrate her grief. The tears stopped, at least for now.

Hawke drew back and stood with the girl in his arms, still carrying her like it was nothing. “No more crying,” he rumbled quietly, and then he gently set her down. “Let’s go.”

It was probably the ten thousandth time Varric had heard those two short words from Hawke, and the very first time he’d heard them like _that_.

\--

From that day on, Merrill smashed the mirror and never touched blood magic again. She gained weight and color, made friends in the alienage, and became something like a Keeper to the city elves, in time.

And something like a little sister to the Champion of Kirkwall—or at least, she realized and understood, finally, that she already was.

\--

“Thank you for this, love. I’ll come find you as soon as I’ve finished.”

Anders slipped away into the shadowy Chantry, footsteps muffled on the carpet—everything quiet and dim and reverent here. Garret Hawke frowned after him—a big, clanking metal man who still smelled a bit like blood, no matter how he polished his armor. Then Anders vanished, and the smaller, quieter, but no-less-covered-in-metal elf finally spoke in a low voice, watching Hawke’s face.

“He is lying to you, Hawke.”

Varric _knew_ the elf would say it. No matter what murmured gossip they passed around the table at the Hanged Man. _A potion to cure an abomination? Who ever heard of such a thing? Drakestone is pretty volatile. How did he put it, exactly? And he wouldn’t say what he’s going to do in the Chantry? Should we say something to Hawke?_

There had been no consensus. But Varric knew the elf wouldn’t leave it.

Hawke didn’t look at Fenris. He glared at the dim, whisper-quiet nothing in front of him and grunted, “Mmm.”

“Yet you still let him do this?”

Never had that heavily-furrowed scowl looked so morose. “I promised to help him,” Hawke grunted.

“I’m sure you did, Hawke,” Varric chimed in, “but considering he pressured you into it without telling you what you were agreeing to—”

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Not this. Not now.” Hawke looked sadly down at Varric, and there was the weight of a dozen worlds on his broad shoulders. “Years ago. I will always fight for him.”

From his other side, Fenris growled, “He doesn’t deserve it.”

Without removing his hand from Varric’s leather-clad shoulder, Hawke turned to look at Fenris. He reached out his other hand and laid it on Fenris’ thin, spike-covered shoulder, and his face wrinkled up in a ridiculous way that made him look a bit constipated, at first glance. But if you looked past the hair and beard and rough, weathered skin and found his eyes, there was a warmth of feeling in them that left no doubt. Hawke smiled at the two of them, in his way, and said nothing.

Then they headed into the Chantry, and Varric thought, _This bonehead is my best friend._

And he was.

\--

Hawke bellowed a war cry and the patrons of the Hanged Man scrambled for the door. The big warrior charged, swinging a huge hammer, and immediately bounced off the barrier Danarius threw up around himself. Hawke roared, furious, but he couldn’t get to the smirking magister yet, and demons were popping up all around the tavern, so he turned his hammer and wrath against them and pounded the shit out of everything Danarius could throw at them.

Then, when he was finally able to reach the man, he beat Danarius into a bloody pulp—but he didn’t kill him. He wore him down until his defenses dropped; then he stepped aside just as Fenris strode forward, as perfectly in step as if they were of one mind, or as if the beats were all rehearsed.

And Fenris crushed his former master’s heart.

Then he turned on his sister, snarling like a mad dog, and in the same moment, Hawke’s big hand closed over his arm, stilling him.

Fenris didn’t look at him; his eyes burned into Varania. But the words he spat were not directed at her. “She led him here! She traded her own brother’s life for _power!_ ”

Varric stepped closer, and only then could he see the elf’s whole frame shaking with tension. “Elf—Fenris. Trust me. It won’t help.”

Hawke didn’t say anything—and he didn’t remove his hand from Fenris’ arm. After a long moment, the elf finally spat at his sister, “Get out.”

She went, but not before changing the shape of the world he knew. What he thought of as a poison forced upon him was really a prize he fought to win. And the great gift he tried to give his family was, to them, a terrible curse they didn’t want.

Maybe it was too much. It seemed to break something in him. Fenris sagged, suddenly empty. Hawke’s grip shifted, moved under his elbow—became a support. It was the first time Varric had ever seen the elf _need_ it, as he processed the death of whatever life he had dreamed of reclaiming.

Hawke grunted, voice low and gravely, “Not alone. You have friends.”

Fenris raised his head, lifted his eyes, looked up at Hawke. “Is…that what we are?” he asked.

Hawke didn’t speak, and he didn’t break the long, unwavering meeting of their eyes.

Varric thought, _Shit. If they weren’t so damn tall…_ It would have been a lot easier to read those silent faces if he had a better angle, maybe two feet higher. _Should have climbed on a chair_ , he realized. _Too late now._

Anders wasn’t present for all this— _Thank the Maker for small mercies_ , Varric thought, because who knew what cold comfort _he_ would have had to offer—but he heard about it. Not from Varric, unfortunately. Varric would have set him straight. Or at least, he would have explained things better than whatever rumor-mill version of the story Anders actually _got_ from who-knew-where.

He was suddenly a lot less busy with his insurrection; he had time to come to the Hanged Man again, time to spend with Hawke.

But it still wasn’t the way it used to be.

“You know, Blondie…I mean, it’s nice having you around again, we’ve missed you, but if this is a jealousy thing…”

“It’s not, Varric.” By the tone, though, it was—at least a little bit. “Of course I trust him. He’s been better to me than I could possibly have deserved.”

“Pretty sure ‘deserving’ doesn’t enter into it, with him,” Varric commented. Anders was still watching the doorway where Hawke had vanished—the same old visit to Martin he’d made ten thousand times before. And brown eyes watching, waiting, anticipating his return, the way they had for years. But Anders’ eyes didn’t water with painful longing or sparkle with bliss anymore. They were heavy, aching, fiercely devoted, yet far away.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “It’s what I love about him. More than all the world.” He wasn’t talking to Varric, really. Mostly to himself. “I’d gladly die for him…”

Varric got a glimpse, then, of the thing that had been putting that heavy weight on Hawke’s shoulders lately. “I think,” he commented, studying his fingernails, “that he’d be a lot happier if you’d live, instead.”

He checked out of the corner of his eye, and his stomach sank at the bitter, ironic half-smile that twisted Anders’ face. “That makes two of us,” Anders said, and Hawke reappeared, and they spoke no more.

\--

Some mages escaped the Circle:

An elf who turned to a demon—who could be sure why, at first? Probably for protection, probably because he had no one else, nowhere to run. The demon warped that into salvation for all the elves, which required this particular elf to stick a kitchen knife in his frightened wife’s stomach.

They killed him.

A girl who turned to a demon to help her save a bunch of starving orphans—she had already turned to the Circle, obeyed the Templars and taken her place, the way she was supposed to. Hoping for help. They locked her up and left the children starving. The demon had ideas about how to feed them—or maybe about just eating them itself, it was hard to tell from what it said.

They killed her.

“After all this, you still support them?” Fenris asked, his voice barely held to the edge of a snarl. It was a question that was constantly hovering there, in his silence, and it seemed he finally couldn’t bite it back anymore. It was the one thorn left to twist its way between him and Hawke—the only thing they had never been able to solve. “ _Look_ at what mages do with their freedom! How can you remain so blind to the dangers of magic?”

Hawke paused, his hand on the door of the Hanged Man, and the setting sun limned his armor with a molten glow. He turned his heavy frown on Fenris—funny how strangers always thought Hawke was glaring angrily at them, when he was so obviously just worried—and he said, “Not magic, Fenris. Mages.”

“As I said. Mages are dangerous,” the elf grunted.

But Hawke shook his head. “ _People_ are dangerous. Some have magic, some don’t. But they’re people.”

“Very well. _Dangerous_ people.”

Hawke shook his shaggy head. “You don’t see people. To you it’s magic. Poison, loose in the world, corrupting, killing whatever it touches.” Hawke’s eyes begged Fenris to understand. “It’s not magic. It’s mages. They’re people. And I love them.”

Fenris met that look. “No matter what they do?”

“Mmm. No matter what they do.”

Fenris turned from him, glowering. Hawke frowned.

“Sometimes, we must stop what they do. If it’s bad. But never forget, it’s a person doing it. Never stop trying to help.”

Varric didn’t know what to make of that, and he had a feeling the elf agreed with him. After the blood and horror they saw so often—after the mad monsters they had _just slain_ —how could any sane man talk like that?

Varric wasn’t sure, really, that he should be allowing himself to consider Hawke his best friend.

Then, when no one seemed willing to answer him, Hawke pushed open the door and went into the Hanged Man—almost the only noble who ever crossed this threshold, and him the most important man in Kirkwall—and there was an awkward boy in ill-fitting finery there, sitting at their usual table, drunk off his ass and desperately trying to hit on every woman he saw.

They had found their third runaway mage. An ugly, awkward virgin. Hawke turned back to Varric and Fenris, made that wincing expression that was sort of a smile, and said, “People.”

Then he went to deal with Emil.

Hawke grunted at the kid, glaring, and then surprised him half to death when he let him stay a few hours with the tavern girl. “Are you serious?” Isabela asked, strolling over from the bar. “That seems a cruel fate, even for Nella.”

“She agreed,” Hawke grunted.

“Must be hard up for coin, this month,” Isabela sighed. “Poor girl.”

“At least she won’t have to worry about getting a rash, not from a virgin like him,” Varric suggested.

It wasn’t until a week later that he realized how sharp Nella was.

Hawke took them back to call on the de Launcets after he returned Emil to the Circle. He brought Varric—he didn’t say so, but Varric knew by now to expect that Hawke wanted him around to handle the talking on occasions like these.

The de Launcets already had a guest—Nella.

“I’ve been stuck by dozens of men, and it never felt like _this_. I’m carrying your grandchild. So, when’s the wedding? When do I get to be _Lady_ de Launcet?”

Hawke glanced at Isabela. “Smart girl,” he grunted.

Isabela was grinning. “I didn’t give her enough credit!”

Anders smiled thinly. “There’s an odd sort of justice in it. But it’s a shame the child isn’t really Emil’s. If it were a mage child, it would serve them right for abandoning their son when he was six.”

The comtess swooned over something Nella said, and Isabela chuckled. “I think it serves them right enough either way.”

\--

Varric tried to get into the Gallows to talk to Sunshine, but he couldn’t. Even though every runway mage had been caught and the guilty were all dead, the Gallows was locked down again, and even Knight-Captain Cullen couldn’t get him a short visit with Sunshine. Not knowing who else to try, he tried Aveline.

“There’s nothing I can do about it, Varric. You overestimate my importance.”

“Come on! You two are practically family! You’ve known him longer than any of us! He’ll listen to you!”

“I’m not his mother,” Aveline answered, shaking her head. She laid a hand heavily on her desk. “During the Blight, we both lost family…on the same field, even. We laid his brother’s body beside Wesley’s. That sort of thing brings people close in a short space of time. But I have never been a replacement for any of the family he lost, no more than he has been for me. And he has you now, and the others. You may not have become close as quickly as we did, but I think you are every bit as important to him now as I am.”

Varric sighed. “Then it’s no use. His mother could have gotten through, but…”

“Yes.”

Varric had never made use of the chair in Aveline’s office before. He never stayed that long. But he sat down, now.

“Why Hawke?” Aveline asked. “It seems if Anders is the problem, Anders is the one to talk to.”

“I tried,” he admitted. “It’s no good. I don’t know if it’s that spirit in his head or what, but he doesn’t get it. He’s going to throw his life away for his revolution. He doesn’t see that he _can’t_ destroy himself without destroying Hawke first.” That was the thing about a protective stone wall—it stood between you and the siege. Whoever was attacking you, they’d have to take the wall down first. And walls don’t _move_ to get out of the way.

“So you were hoping, what? That I could convince him to stop loving Anders?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. At this point, maybe get him to just bash the guy on the back of the head, tie him up, and make a run for somewhere— _anywhere_ else. Tevinter, maybe?”

“He’s an abomination, Varric. He’d just come back to finish the job.”

“Yeah.” Varric rubbed his forehead. “Shit.”

\--

The day it happened started out like an ordinary day. Cards at the Hanged Man the night before, some work in the morning, another letter on Hawke’s desk around midday, Meredith and Orsino tearing into each other for no particularly good reason.

Then Anders detonated the Kirkwall Chantry.

\--

“I will leave your _friend_ for you to deal with,” Orsino said.

Anders sat there, on some random crate. Hawke stepped over the dead bodies, slow and heavy. Anders didn’t look up at him; he buried his face in one hand, and with the other he extended a knife, holding it by the blade, hilt toward Hawke.

Hawke paused. Took the knife. Dropped it on the street.

Then he knelt down on the ground in front of Anders, put his arms around his lover’s waist, and bowed his head, laying it in his lap.

One moment, Varric was ready to pull Bianca’s trigger on that mage, because apparently the last six years didn’t matter. The next moment, he couldn’t. The biggest warrior in Kirkwall was clinging to him, trembling, and Anders didn’t seem to know what to do. He kept talking, stammering out things about injustice and an example for the world to see and his life being the price. His hands hovered, but wherever they touched Hawke, even for a moment, they pulled back again, not daring to trespass longer. He was confused, almost panicking, and eventually the words and explanations dried up, and Anders bent double over Hawke, and in a broken voice, begged: “Kill me, love. Just kill me.”

Hawke shook his head, without raising it.

“I deserve to die. The innocents must be avenged. You…you must be angry. I used you…please, please Hawke. I’d rather die by your hand than anyone else’s.”

Hawke shook his head. Then he raised it, looked at his lover, and took his hands. They couldn’t hear what he said; it was too quiet. They could see the light catch on tears, though, leaking from the corners of his eyes and vanishing into his beard.

Anders made a broken, sobbing sound.

Fenris, cold and calm as a mountain, looked on, and in a flat tone he said, “I am going to kill him, as I told him I would.”

Varric couldn’t disagree, exactly, but… “He’ll let you. But think of Hawke.”

Silently, Fenris looked at the two of them, and a ripple of ice-blue light flowed over his skin.

Hawke stood, slowly. Wearily. He still held Anders’ hands.

“Let’s go.”


	4. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much all my headcanon, bridging DA2 with the setup of DAI. Little epilogue, very sad. I apologize in advance. :(

Anders was a dreamer to the last. When Hawke forgave him, the idealist shone out again in one last burst of hope. Funny—there were spirits of Hope, right? Why did it have to be Justice that crazy mage got tangled up with?

Bethany was there with them, listening. Anders spoke to Hawke of being refugees together—a romantic life on the run, hunted together, ever fighting for their cause together. The beautiful future they would make for all the mages to come. Hawke didn’t say anything. Anders breathed, “I will always love you,” and kissed him, and Hawke held him tight, his eyes full of pain and loss. Bethany watched and turned and looked at Varric with tears in her eyes.

Under his breath, he mumbled, “Sorry, Sunshine. I tried.”

\--

In the Gallows courtyard, a bronze statue put a huge metal blade through Anders’ chest, so large it would have cut him in half if it had been turned a little more toward the horizontal. The mage faltered, staggering, magic flickering at his hands and fizzling away.

The roar Garret Hawke unleashed as he raced to Anders’ side was unlike anything Varric had ever heard before—almost. Actually, he might have heard it once. When Leandra died.

Bethany ran to his side, pressed glowing hands over the huge hole, trying in vain to hold life inside the body her brother cradled in his arms. It was no use. The rest of them gathered around, standing over Hawke, protecting him, beating the attackers back.

No last words—one of them was drowning in his own blood, and the other never really used words to begin with. And anyway, they had already said everything they could. All that remained was for Hawke to watch the last light die from soft brown eyes.

Then: “Hawke!” Aveline shouted, bashing her shield into a bronze statue three times her size. The shield would have splintered if it had been the cheap, poor-quality kind she was stuck carrying back in the early days.

“We’re getting overwhelmed here!” Varric yelled.

And Hawke gently laid the body of his lover down, and rose up with a roar—the great, unstoppable brute of a warrior everyone thought he really was. His shaggy face was a mess of tears.

When they won—because when _hadn’t_ they won?—Hawke sagged, and would have dropped like a stone.

But Fenris was already beside him, and Fenris caught him.

Smaller, leaner, improbably strong, the elf pulled Hawke’s arm over his shoulder and all but carried him out of the Gallows and away from Kirkwall.

\--

Isabela stood at the helm of the ship and turned her prow to catch the wind. She called it “her” ship, but Varric was pretty sure it was stolen. Not that anyone would miss a little craft like this just at the moment, with Kirkwall in the state it was in.

Aveline was the only one who hadn’t come with them.

“I must remain to restore order,” she said at the dock. Not that anyone was in doubt. All leadership in Kirkwall was destroyed; of course the captain of the guard must stay.

“Aveline,” Hawk rasped, reaching toward her. “Anders. Don’t let them…”

She clasped his arm. “I’ll take care of him, Hawke. Trust me.”

He nodded.

\--

Within a few days, they had to put in for supplies. The ship hadn’t exactly been provisioned. Isabela came back with news—word had it they were being pursued.

“If I can get another ship, we can keep on a while. The problem at the moment is that they have a description of this one.”

“A ship might not be the way to go,” Varric answered. “Word spreads. They’re easy to track. Unless you can avoid all harbors and just stay out at sea for months on end.”

Fenris approached. He’d left Hawke only because Bethany was with him. “We should go overland,” he said.

“Where to?”

Fenris glanced at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

In the silence, Merrill spoke up. “I have to go back,” she said. “I know Hawke needs us, but after what happened, the city must be…” She bit her lip. “And after all, a smaller group will be less noticeable. If we all go, we might not get very far.”

“True,” Fenris said.

“We could land somewhere remote,” Varric suggested, “and Isabela could take you back to Kirkwall. Pursuers will follow the ship, at least for a while. You could give Hawke time to disappear.”

Isabela chewed her lip, looking unhappy. But before she could say anything, Hawke himself interrupted, appearing from below.

“Varric.” They all turned to look at him. “You’ll go with them.”

“Now, Hawke…”

“Go back, Varric. Help Aveline. And…” He frowned. “Bodahn can take care of Sandal, but Orana…”

He sighed. “I guess she’ll need a new job.”

Hawke nodded. “The estate. And Gamlen…”

Snorting: “Trust me, I won’t let your weasel of an uncle steal that place twice.”

The big, silent warrior stood before them all. He was out of armor, now, and even though Varric had known him for years, he had rarely seen Hawke in regular clothing like this. Only in his Hightown estate, when Varric visited him there. Even in the Hanged Man, he always wore armor. He looked smaller. He looked like a mere mortal, for a change.

Bethany joined them, and Varric noticed for the first time that she wasn’t all that much smaller than her brother. Slimmer, yes—much slimmer. But less than a foot shorter. “I wouldn’t put anything past Uncle Gamlen. He’s probably already snuck in and stolen everything not nailed down.”

Hawke rested his hand on her arm. “Varric will handle him.”

She turned to look at Varric, then, and her eyes cut him deep. There was a darkening of doubt in them, of distrust. _Fair enough, I guess_ , he thought, _considering how well I took care of the last thing she trusted me with_.

Never again.

Isabela looked at Bethany. “What about you, sweetheart? I don’t mean Kirkwall, but I can get you somewhere safe.” She glanced at Hawke. “Not that Hawke wouldn’t do his best…”

Hawke frowned; Bethany answered for herself. “We were going to ask you that. My brother thinks, at least for now, that I might stay with our cousin. At least until we see what happens with the other Circles.”

“Charade?” Isabela nodded. “Good plan. She seemed a reliable sort of girl.”

Hawke grunted, nodding. Bethany linked their arms and squeezed reassuringly.

For a long stretch, everyone was silent. Varric and Isabela communicated with glances; but it was Merrill who spoke first. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Fenris?”

The elf had been standing somewhat behind Hawke, a bit shadowed and outside of the circle of conversation. “What?” he answered. Hawke turned slightly, including him.

Isabela raised her eyebrows at him, her tone markedly casual. “Going back? Or somewhere else?”

“…No.”

Hawke just looked at him. Fenris raised his gaze and met that look. No one said anything else. There was nothing else to say, really.

\--

“Write to me and keep me informed. You can do that now, can’t you?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll burn the letters. No one will track you down. And it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just…” Varric sighed. “I need to hear how he’s doing, and it’s no good asking _him_. So do me a favor.”

“Understood.”

Varric shifted his weight, eyes drifting to Hawke, who was saying his farewells to Bethany. “I hate to leave him,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He’s my best friend.”

“Mmm.”

“You too, huh?” Varric grinned weakly.

Fenris didn’t smile. He followed Varric’s gaze, and for a moment he was silent. Then: “No. I think not.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Slowly, the elf shook his head.

Varric considered this, and finally asked something he’d wondered for a while. “Something else, then? Was there something between you two after all, maybe before Blondie?”

“Before…” But the elf’s answer was unclear. “We are…we are much more than friends. We are not lovers. We are nothing like brothers. I do not know a word for what we are. But…I will never leave his side.”

“In that case,” Varric hummed, “I guess I’ll leave him to you, elf.”

Fenris nodded. “I will keep you informed.”

\--

Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast didn’t seem like she’d be a great listener at first. It was no end of amusing how much of the story she demanded from him, piece by piece, without tiring of any of the details. Varric knew how to rate his audience, and by the end he’d call her a solid “fan”—of Hawke at least, if not of Varric himself.

But that didn’t mean he trusted her.

He didn’t care _what_ her cause was—even if it was righteous. If she told him she was trying to save the world, well, maybe Varric would help with that himself. Maybe.

But he wouldn’t drag Hawke into it, no matter what it was. Hawke had been through enough, thanks to other people and their _causes_. Varric wasn’t trusting him to _anyone_ else, not anymore.

Nobody but Sunshine…and Fenris.

\--

_Have you ever_

_Been so happy that you’re sad_

_That the lights turn to stars_

_And the stars become eyes_

_And hellos are goodbyes_

_And the laughs are the sighs_

_And the show disappears with the note_

_“Until next time”_

_Long live living_

_If living can be this_

__


End file.
